


the color of the wheat fields

by namio



Category: Tales of Zestiria
Genre: Alternate Universe - College/University, Alternate Universe - Modern: No Powers, Belief in seraphim still exist to an extent, Birthday Party, Character and Ship tags will be added as I go, Drabble Collection With Plot, FOR GRAMPS, Gen, M/M, Mountain boys Sorey and Mikleo, New Years, Sick Fic, Sorey is a dweeb pass it on, The in-game seraphim are humans in here though, a new years episode brought to you on the last third of january, anyway im a self indulgent trash, boring ass backstory im sorry, gross sappy goopy sormik interlude, yeah ive got no excuse
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2016-08-27
Updated: 2017-01-21
Packaged: 2018-08-11 09:32:29
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 6
Words: 10,498
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7885831
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/namio/pseuds/namio
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>He doesn’t know why, but he feels like his chest is going to burst. He falls in love over and over, everyday—</p>
<p>He falls in love with the friendly mountains, with the creaks of their bikes, with the nightmare Mikleo’s hair becomes each and every morning. He falls in love with the idea of living. Sometimes, some people tell him that he can’t have a love that fickle, can’t love all of things, inanimate or living, but his blood sings as they swerve with the road, as civilization rises like silhouettes of people, as adrenaline colors Mikleo’s cheeks pink, and he thinks love should be redefined instead.</p>
<p>Or, Sorey and Mikleo and their lives in the tiny village of Elysia, where old ruins beckon every afternoon and school only exists next city over, down the mountain.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Mikleo’s eyes match the sunrise sometimes.

It’s just something that he couldn’t help but notice, like how thick the mist are to the point of turning the distant mountains grey—sometimes, when the sun isn’t even visible, the sky’s a calm shade of blue and the clouds are peaches and pink, tufts soft as the pillows of his bed after an exciting day. School’s quite a way down the mountains, in these parts—Elysia is a small, idyllic old village, with ruins and stone houses and all, and it’s _home_ , but it has a population of less than fifty and no school and so here they are, speeding down on their bikes, frigid winds carding through their hairs. The road down to Camlann feels new, sometimes. The sounds of wheels and the bump of pebbles and the terraced landscape of wheat and barley and rice all seem new, like he’s been born just a minute ago, beholding them for the first time yet again, and Mikleo’s eyes are the meeting between clouds and sky. His brown hair is dirt.

“You shouldn’t daydream while riding a bike,” Mikleo calls out, increasing his speed. It’s a bold, risky thing—they’ve got enough patches on their school pants and bandaids on their knees to prove it. When he tilts his head back, he’s grinning.

Sorey grins back, feet moving just a little faster. “Bet I’ll get to school faster than you even when I’m daydreaming, anyway,” he says, sticking his tongue out afterwards. Mikleo snorts, one hand releasing its grip on the handlebar to adjust his bag.

“Daydream more, then—maybe you’ll succeed in there.”

And then they’re down a slope, legs locked into position as they let gravity do their work for them, and Sorey can’t help but let out a whoop, and Mikleo’s laughing, and winds race with them. Wheat-gold creeps higher into the sky. It’s no longer the color of Mikleo’s eyes, now, but it kind of feels like a _real_ new day, now—like a true start, like he’s been reborn. The morning is here.

He doesn’t know why, but he feels like his chest is going to burst. He falls in love over and over, everyday—

He falls in love with the friendly mountains, with the creaks of their bikes, with the nightmare Mikleo’s hair becomes each and every morning. He falls in love with the idea of living. Sometimes, some people tell him that he can’t have a love that fickle, can’t love all of things, inanimate or living, but his blood sings as they swerve with the road, as civilization rises like silhouettes of people, as adrenaline colors Mikleo’s cheeks pink, and he thinks love should be redefined instead.

His chest bursts, and it comes out in flutters of laughter, airy as the mist.

* * *

The two of them aren’t _just_ country boys—they’re boys from an isolated village up in the mountains, so ridiculously out of the way that it’s a question why anyone would even live there, because Camlann is a tiny, sleepy town and even it has probably a hundred more times the number of people, all waking with the sun. There’s a school, there; it has two hundred students total stretching from the first to twelfth grade, each class comprising of less than ten. He and Mikleo, thankfully, share a grade. Then again, they share most of everything.

They shared cribs, even, back then—his mother was and is a single mother, and times are hard, especially when time has to be split between livelihood and a premature infant. Aunt Muse and Uncle Michael are part of his life as much as Mom and Gramps are, and really, they share families, too. They share the entire village. They share things the other doesn’t have.

“Can I have my notes back, now?” Mikleo asks, offhandedly, over his shoulder, and Sorey looks up to stare at the back of his head. His hair, he muses, looks the same shade as the soft, crumbly stone they’ve been staring at—shades lighter than his own, it always looks a bit like an earthly ethereal crown. Instead of gold, his crown is probably wheat—part of him always feels like precious metals can’t really live up to how precious _life_ is.

And, really, Mikleo’s not really the stuff fairy tales are made out of. He’s as much a nerd as Sorey is, and they both know that dragons don’t really exist.

“So you think this is it?” The clearing they’re standing in isn’t anything spectacular, though it’s interestingly quite devoid of trees for part of the ruins of Old Elysia—after being abandoned for a while, the trees around here are looming and heavy, somewhat sage-like in appearance. Vines and straying branches often weave their ways through the broken architecture, making home out of old homes, and sunlight are almost always dappled. In this clearing, though, Sorey can almost imagine he can see the stars. “The entrance to the shrine?”

“Well,” Mikleo says, snatching his notebook back. “It’s not like anyone can be sure, but maybe? I mean, if you look at the area, don’t you think that there’s something a bit different?”

“It does look magical.”

Mikleo rolls his eyes. “Looking magical isn’t a concrete proof of anything, Sorey. You always say that to every pudding you come across, anyway.”

“Only the good ones,” Sorey says. It just so happens that a lot of homemade puddings happen to be great, because here, the only recipes that stick around are recipes that survive the test of time and picky children. “It still looks magical, though.”

“Hmm. I suppose I see what you mean. But it’s still not a proof of anything.”

In the end, it _is_ a proof of something. They sneak out at night, though Sorey has a feeling that they’re less sneaking out as much as being allowed to sneak out, and make their way out of the tiny village up to the old ruins. The hands of his watch, the one he had since third grade with the picture of a dragon spewing lime green fire, glow an eerie green, and it’s almost eleven o’clock, and they’re in that clearing again. Mikleo’s in his pajamas and Sorey’s wearing the shirt his mother always threatened to trash, but the stars up above look even more amazing, somehow, with some of the brightest ones forming an almost-circle, lining the edge of the silhouettes of leaves.

“Do you think there are seraphim of stars?” he asks, eyes transfixed in the sky. Mikleo only hums, though his expression is an open wonder, too.

“I’m not sure. Why would there be seraphim of stars, though?”

“Don’t you think they’re part of life as much as the normal elements are?”

“I… don’t know. I don’t really think that’s how stars _or_ seraphim work.”

Still, there’s no bite in his tone. Really. They share what the other might lack—and Sorey will always, always share his wonder.

Mikleo, for the most part, finds it wonderful, too.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is really self indulgent in that some of my fondest childhood memories is just riding my bike like a maniac. I grew up in normal neighborhood(s), but I still went into waterways in rainy seasons to catch fish anyway  
> everything can feel like such a wonder sometimes


	2. Chapter 2

They had an assignment to write an essay about what home is, one time.

It’s really, really an old assignment, but he always comes back to remember it, from time to time. It usually sneaks up on him whenever he’s just doing things like dragging the pail of water from the pump outside for dinner, or when he’s rocking on the balls of his feet as he waits for Mikleo, eyes on the flutter of the sheer white curtains as Mikleo finishes up changing. It’s the sort that he still thinks about and expands, even if it’s just in his mind and there’s no grade for it anymore. It doesn’t really need one, anyway.

Basically, it goes like—

Reading in the lantern light with Mikleo late at night, after even Uncle Michael retired to his bedroom. The goats they own that kicked him several times when he was seven. Going with his mother to the shrine early in the morning, when trees still look green-grey. The sun scorching the back of his neck and arms as they brush away dirt from a covered mural. That window pane in the kitchen that’s in a really inconvenient spot and is too hard to clean and makes the sunlight dance in rainbows on the table. Mom and her really weird cow salt and pepper shakers she loved so much. The moment when he wakes up and the sky is still dull with sleep. The thing about home, he writes, is that he can’t really decide what makes it home, if he’s forced to choose one.

And, really—he thinks he shouldn’t.

“Have you thought about what college you’ll be trying to get into, Mikleo?”

They’re out on the steps of Mikleo’s house, eating the frozen yoghurt Natalie made in Lawrence’s fine china, the one with blue periwinkles on them. Spring is a dainty thing, peering behind leaves, and it leaves Sorey in a bit of a sniffle, but that doesn’t stop him from eating up the frozen delicacy anyway. It’s too good a day—they both finished up their chores early, the sun is behind nice, wispy clouds, and Natalie added some wild berries she found earlier today, which are now staining his teeth red. Mikleo sniffles, blinking for a bit, and tilts his head.

“Yeah. I was thinking maybe Marlind?”

Most others reply with _‘we’re still in tenth grade; how would we know if we can get into any universities anyway?’,_ but this is Mikleo, and honestly, Sorey sort of already knows the answer.

“Hmm…”

“It sounds like it’s got the best location by far, and it’s one of Hyland’s best, so…”

The one technically the best is Hyland University in Ladylake, but apparently it’s only so for the science, business and law majors. Uncle Michael always says that Marlind’s a better way to live anyway—lots of libraries, he says, and the local cakes are great. Aunt Muse says it’s Lailah’s fault that he thinks of things in terms of cakes. Sorey doesn’t know who Lailah is, but she indirectly made Elysia a place with many sweets, and he sometimes high-fives her in his mind, whatever she might look like.

Still. Universities. Marlind.

“It means we have to live outside Elysia or Camlann, though,” Sorey muses, and Mikleo raises an eyebrow.

“Well, yeah. It’s a four day’s drive from here, after all.”

It’s amazing, how strange that sounds—the only car here in Elysia is Lawrence, which he uses to get vegetables and fruits down to Camlann to sell, and it often makes a bumpy bike ride a riot instead, what with the gears and trinkets and this and that rattling from who knows where. Sorey can’t even imagine being in that for four days. And, really—how far _is_ four days? Is it as distant as it sounds, when they don’t have to stop ever so often to catch their breath and drink some water? Around here, a day whizzes past so quickly; Old Elysia has at least decades’ worth of days, and it’s only a thirty minute’s walk and seventy eight smoothed stone steps away. Part of him wants to see the world under; the other part doubts it’s as magnificent as this mountain is in his heart.

“Do you think they’ll have ruins?”

Mikleo hums. “I don’t know. Uncle said it’s an old-looking town, though. Hasn’t changed in almost a century.”

Sorey laughs. “So, basically, it looks like Elysia?” Even people in Camlann says that Elysia is an old village, barely even marching alongside time. Electricity here still sputtered out in the rain—everyone makes tons of ice when the electricity is on, and bury meat and milk in those blocks when it inevitably goes out. Sorey knows the things to do in preparation of the inevitable blackout with his eyes closed—that’s how he and his mom worked, as a team: he takes care of things she can’t. He goes to Mikleo’s every night after dinner, and they study together in the glow of the oil lantern. It’s like an hourglass of smoke—the kitchen windows has a mosquito net they can slide on, which means wind often rustle the pages of their books and notes, but the smell always lingers anyway, and it’s only a matter of time until they start getting distracted. Sometimes, when that gets too much but their minds are even _more_ , Sorey pulls out the flashlight they got in Camlann and they’d share a book, huddled together in Aunt Muse’s favourite spring green couch.

“I don’t think anything could ever be like Elysia,” Mikleo says, eating some more of his yoghurt. “Elysia is just… Elysia.”

“Yeah.”

“But don’t tell me you’re going to wimp out of going to college just because it’s far from home?” Mikleo’s eyebrows are raised but so are the corners of his lips, glossy with yoghurt and berries. And really, Sorey kind of wonders how Mikleo seems to be totally okay with leaving here when this is his life all this time, too—Sorey _wants_ to see the entire world, but it doesn’t mean that he’s devoid of doubt. He knows the world isn’t all sunshine and breeze. He loves life, but he’s not blind to its faults either.

“I think you’re worrying too much,” Mikleo says when Sorey doesn’t answer. “I mean, it won’t be _easy_ , that’s for sure. But I’m sure we’ll do fine.”

“I guess so, yeah,” Sorey says.

It’s funny—they always say that Sorey is the one who will be most excited to leave the village. And yes, he was the one bouncing up and down and clinging and swinging round everyone on his first day of school, but, well.

Sometimes, when he thinks of home, of leaving it, he kind of worries for his mother. She spends most of her day herding and making cheese and tending to their garden and isn’t someone with a vast knowledge of the world like Uncle Michael or with wisdom like Gramps or get him like Mikleo, but she’s his mother and she doesn’t have someone like Aunt Muse has her brother. He’s not the easiest child to raise, he knows—he knows that he was premature and that’s a lot of responsibility for her.

Sometimes, he still wants to leave anyway.

* * *

Both he and Mikleo have been raised on Gramps’ knees, but he was the premature baby and the one he kept his eyes on even to this day.

The others tell him—well, him and Mikleo, usually—a lot of stories. Most of them involve both of them being a nuisance to Gramps, whose reactions vary from shaking his head to yelling to patting their heads. Sometimes, it’s about their apologies. In one memorable occasion, Mikleo tried to eat his tobacco.

Gramps is Gramps, even though he’s pretty sure that neither of them is related to him. Sorey doesn’t even know where he comes from—Mikleo doesn’t either, and Uncle Michael isn’t saying anything. Aunt Muse always shrugs. Medea doesn’t know, nor does Mason, or Melody, and wow, Elysia sure has a lot of people whose name starts with M.

Oh, right. Gramps.

“…Do you think he listens to the radio?”

Sorey lets his finger trace the surface of the old-looking thing, all bright red and glossy like cherry candies. The small pocket radio hums _Lovely Waters_ , and to his surprise, it’s smooth as silk. Mikleo looks up from the other side of the shop—his hand lingers on an old compass.

“I think _you_ listen to that more than he does,” Mikleo says. Sorey frowns. “Don’t you have any other ideas?”

“…Us?”

Mikleo whacks his head with his cap—it’s a faded, dark blue thing, and has PenU on it. The colors on the fabric has stained the stitched white letters, and now it’s P  U, and it’s as unflattering as it sounds. Aunt Muse still doesn’t let him go out without a cap in the middle of summer.

“Yeah,” Mikleo says, rolling his eyes, “let’s come up to him and go ‘Gramps, for your birthday we’re giving you more trouble’. Sure, Sorey. Great idea.”

Sorey crosses his arms, pouting. “What should we get, then?”

They do end up bringing to him more trouble for his birthday: after roping in Natalie, Mason, Loanna and Cynthia, they manage to make something _resembling_ a cake, and Mikleo ‘discreetly’ ‘borrows’ his mom’s chiffon cake recipe she got from Lailah, and Mason gets Lawrence to get Medea to make a hearty vegetable and minced meat pie, and then there’s these plates of food from the oven, and the unknowing half of the village suddenly knows, though only of the existence of the food and not the reasons why. Their cake is _very_ uneven. Mikleo is not very good with a knife. The only candles Sorey manages to find in the store in Camlann—almost closed, by the time he collapses on their steps—are ones for candelabras and those children’s birthday candles, with bold, red numbers and a looped _Happy Birthday!._

They’re told, later on, that Gramps’ face when people brought in food was confused but still flat, and it was almost awkward for a second. Then he and Mikleo brought out the cake, in all its Frankenstein-like glory, Sorey still panting from rushing back on his bike and Mikleo with flour in his hair, and _then_ he cracked a smile.

“Where did you get the impression that I’m 99?”

“We’re sure we add at least the missing amount all these years,” Sorey replied, cheerfully.

Mikleo’s grin walked the thin line between co-conspirator and throwing-you-to-the-wolves. “But Sorey especially.”

The cake wasn’t bad. Apparently, Mikleo’s insistence on evening out the flour on the cups and seeing whether they’re perfectly on the line as he kneeled to gain an even vantage-point paid off. They squished Gramps the entire time, sitting on either of his sides, and tried their best to stop being kids and failed.

Festivities, rare as they are, run until dinner time is over—and when both of them clamor to clean up the dishes, he and Mikleo finally laugh. It’s nine and they’re in the back of Gramps’ house with a basin of cold water and dirty dishes piled up, and they’re pressed against each other as they squeeze themselves into sitting on the doorstep of the kitchen, but they’re laughing as they wash and pass and dry the plates.

There’s thunder, off in the distance, but it doesn’t rain; it only starts when he and Mikleo are back inside, spread out and sharing a cot that’s more like layers of layers of layers of cotton blankets and a thin mattress, and everything kind of smells like ginger and herbal tonics and tobacco. There’s a song from a radio, _somewhere_ , but he’s beat and he’s frankly too content lying here to care about where the radio even is, and Mikleo’s on his side, eyes closed. The flour is still on his hair. Sorey reaches out to flick it.

“Stoppit.”

“There’s flour in your hair.”

“Leave it be.”

“It’ll be gross tomorrow.”

“Sorey.”

“Your hair is white, now. Like Gramps.”

“I don’t feel like moving. Stoppit.”

Sorey doesn’t really remember the end of that exchange. In the morning, though, he wakes up to find that Mikleo’s hair is flour-free, Sorey’s scraped ankle bandaged, and a tartan blanket draped over both of them, only managing to do so from their proximity. The hum of the radio is still on, and somehow, _still_ on _Lovely Waters_ , and the familiar smell of tobacco wafts from near the fireplace, equally a lullaby.

When he stops looking around and resettles in his position, purple eyes are staring back at him. And like the old times, his eyes drift close again, following the age-old habit. An instinct, maybe. Something buried in long-past memories. Something reassuring.

Something like home.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This one’s for elise/evronwolf, because thanks so much for what you said ; v ; it really got me into a writing mood so here you go!  
> Also, because I keep forgetting—  
> If anyone's got anything to say, my tumblr is diatasair.tumblr  
> I do appreciate prompts, since they keep me from being idle!  
> Thanks for reading!


	3. Chapter 3

The thing is, Sorey kinda likes Mikleo.

He doesn’t know when he actually started liking him that way, but he kinda realized that when he was milking the goats and Mikleo came over after he finished planting garlics and onions and lemongrass, sleeves rolled up to his elbows and dirt a dark bed under his fingernails, sweat turning his shirt dark. He looked like he just spent the entire morning working the garden. He looked really pretty.

The other thing is, well, he likes _Mikleo_. Mikleo, who knows about that time when he was five and wet himself crying because of the roar Lawrence’s car made. Mikleo who complains and teases him about his snoring and his drooling, whom he actually _drooled on_ , who was there when he got stuck in the muddy fields and lost his pants amongst the paddy when he was four. Mikleo knows about that time Sorey almost set the house on fire with the oil lamp. He was there when Sorey invoked the wrath of the electric whisker.

If those romance novels his co-worker Manda lent him taught him anything, it’s that there’s really a limit to love. Namely, shameful childhood experiences. Really. Even those novels where childhood friends become more they don’t share things like how Sorey tried to eat Mikleo’s foot when they were infants. Or that time he accidentally pushed Mikleo off a tree. With his foot. On his face.

It’s honestly one of the few things that bring him down, sometimes. Because really, Mikleo’s pretty. Too pretty, honestly. Even if he’s a bit bony, especially on the elbows.

“What’s with the long face, Sorey?”

When Sorey looks up, Ed is peering down, a sack over his shoulder. In his other arm is a chicken, squawking indignantly. It’s a very lively chicken. It must have known it’s going to be sold.

“Nothing, really,” Sorey says, shaking his head. No, it’s really nothing—anyway, he needs to finish cutting all of these up for dinner. He’s got to finish this before it’s too late in the afternoon; cooking in the dark is hardly fun, but cooking with the smell of kerosene is even less appealing. “Going to Camlann?”

“You know it already,” Ed says, eyebrows raised. “Well, it’s no good that you’re feeling down about something. How about we go set up some traps in the forest this weekend?”

“Sure!” he says. It’s kind of sad, how being able to catch some of the prickleboars around here won’t make Mikleo like him more. Mikleo is very hard to impress. Then again, most of the time, whenever they’re together, Sorey is too caught up in their competition of the day to really think about impressing him beyond a grin and ‘I win!’.

It will come as a belated realization, but late at night, Sorey will realize in horror that Mikleo will probably only remember him as his dweeb childhood friend.

* * *

Mikleo is the sort of person who rarely gets sick, but suffers all those moments of could’ve-been sickness in one go.

It doesn’t make for a good time. Actually, it makes for a terrible time.

Sorey is the sort of kid who gets sick every two months or so, but bounces back in less than a week. Mikleo often sits by his bedside during those times—‘your mom already has enough on her plate; I’m just taking some load off of her,’ he says, changing his towel and bringing him water and helping him hobble to the bathroom and making him tea. ‘Go back to sleep. You look awful.’

Sorey, this time, considers himself lucky.

The noise Mikleo makes is thin and weak, but Sorey looks up from his homework anyway, leaning in close. Mikleo’s eyes are hazy underneath his eyelashes, matching the heat swimming underneath his skin, and Sorey brushes back his bangs, watching as eyelids flutter close again.

“Do you need anything?”

Only the sound of raspy, filtered breathing filled the room, impossibly loud amongst the background noises of goats and people. When he doesn’t respond for a minute, Sorey draws back and pets his hair again. Maybe he’s not really awake quite yet. Nestled underneath the covers, it’s honestly an impressive thing—he looks a bit like a baking potato, and his skin is lukewarm with lingering sweat. Sorey presses the back of his hand against Mikleo’s neck.

This time, Mikleo responds. It’s a low groan, hardly comprehensible, but it sounds pleased. Sorey moves his hand to the other side of his neck. Mikleo tilts his head.

“You’re like a baked sweet potato,” Sorey muses, and purple eyes flutter open.

“Are you really… insulting me when I’m sick?” His voice is dry like grinding plain biscuits, almost painful to the ears, and Sorey moves back. The back of his right hand is far too warm to be of any comfort, now—it’s kinda sweaty from Mikleo, but oh well. Mikleo did the same for him a lot, too. Using his other hand, he offers an apology with a palm loosely cupping a cheek. Mikleo accepts the apology with a sigh.

“Do you want some water?” There’s a glass, covered by a piece of scribbled paper on the nightstand—Sorey grabs it. Dewy beads leave rings on the splotches of wood, pooling and discoloured, peeling cloudy blue paint glossy white on the under. The nightstand has a lot of history; they painted it together just a few years back, out in the sunny patch of land on Mikleo’s front yard. Half the fence still blinks back in faded pastels, now, matching the patches of anemones that Aunt Muse said is officially Mikleo’s in name. They’re in these shades of purples and whites and blues, and it makes the house look calm.

Not that Mikleo is calm. Well, he is. He _usually_ is, anyway, though this time it’s out of misery.

“-s please.”

Moving the glass of water to his left, Sorey leans forward and props Mikleo up with his right, eyebrows furrowing as Mikleo shuts his eyes tight when his line of vision shifts. Clammy fingers loosely wrap around his, feebly trying to guide the glass to his lips, and Sorey obliges. Tipping the glass gently, Sorey watches as thin trails of water flow into his mouth. He stops ever so often, and dabs away the water on his chin afterwards.

“Thanks,” Mikleo breathes out as Sorey tucks him back in. “Don’t you… have… things to do?”

“I’m doing homework,” Sorey says, pressing his hand against the side of Mikleo’s face. “But I can do that here no problem.”

The edges of Mikleo’s lips twitch upwards. “You’re going to get sick too.”

“I already got sick last week,” Sorey says. “Do you feel any better?”

“Somewhat.” The reply is more like an exhale than a word, but it’s more than enough to make Sorey quirk out a smile. Well, good enough. Mikleo tends to have those miserable sick periods where he can’t do much more than make sad goat noises as he thrashes around every few seconds, unable to even arrange the details of his misery in coherent, human sentences. One memorable time, the only way he could get across what he _really_ wanted was by rolling off the bed and bringing down the blankets with him, twisting and contorting into strange poses until he finally found one that satiated whatever urges made him do such a thing. If it involved having half of his head under the bed to avoid the lights, so be it. The only thing Sorey could do, then, was slowly feed him chocolate until he got enough energy to move.

Sorey, hand now warm from Mikleo’s fever, moves to brush his hair back instead, letting the soft strands run through his fingers. It’s oily and clumpy from days of bed rest, but continues doing so; he can see the tiny relaxed exhale, the gentler slope of his shoulders. Mikleo still looks awful and misery doesn’t suit him, but that’s why he’s here.

 Lightly, softly, he presses a kiss against his forehead.

“There,” Sorey says, grinning to himself. “You’ll be better soon, now.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> KrisseyCrystal said sickfic and i'm sick so mikleo gets to be sick too  
> (Do tell if anyone wants it from Mikleo's pov u v u //is trash for that too but needs motivation to actually get some studying finished)  
> anyway sorey is a dweeb but hes a lovable dweeb  
> tumblr at diatasair if anyone wants to prompt or request, as always!


	4. Interlude

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Set during college years; it's years later and they're in an established relationship.

In Marlind, mornings in the weekends only start at nine o’clock.

It’s currently an hour before that. Sunshine is already a curtain of heat, coloring the inside of their dorm in blocks of light gold, but life is but a murmur outside, the world still thick with sleep. Sorey supposes it’s only normal—Saturday is the best day to sleep in, as evidenced by the fact that he can hear Mikleo lightly snoring in his room, flopped on his stomach with the blankets nuzzling him up to his chin. He’s not asleep, though. He’s got a mission.

Well, that, and he woke up early because he forgot that he set an alarm at seven twenty for last week, but forgot to turn it off this week.

It’s kind of funny, though. Back in Elysia, he didn’t even dream of sleeping in past eight, not even on the weekends. There’s just too much to do, yet so little time—if they need more sleep, they nap in the middle of the day instead. Here, five semesters in, he’s nodding along in sagely agreement as his classmates sleep in until eleven. His mom would be disappointed.

But, well. This week, Mikleo _really_ deserves his extra few hours of sleep. And some breakfast.

Which is why Sorey’s tiptoeing into the main room, laptop under his arm. It’s a good day for pancakes, probably—they still have syrup and honey from the last trip for groceries, and honestly, with Mikleo around to send texts reminding him about eggs and bread, this is not a dorm room that runs out of ingredients. Mikleo keeps everything filed with words, tagging everything with those paper-slip keychains and stickers and post-its, all neatly repackaged in all different sorts of Tupperware, stacked by color. There’s a small foldable staircase next to the sink for getting the ones in the back of the cabinets.

The kitchenette is a brick red thing on the corner of the room, kitschy in design and tucked next to a large window, its white plastic sill the nest of several tiny pots of herbs.  Some of the leaves press insistently against the glass, soaking up the morning warmth—they’re wide-eyed and expressive and Sorey agrees with their choice of activity, and so sits himself on the blue sofa, back to the sun. The telly’s position as mindless chatter is filled by YouTube videos about animal sleeping habits and Rolance’s Imperial Family Explained, making it at least educational. Sorey scrolls through three different bookmark folders searching for that pancake recipe he and Mikleo like.

_‘Archduke Balin II, who owns the tract of land southwest of Rolance, marries Princess Evaine’_ joins the chirps of busy birds as Sorey grabs the flour and eggs and milk, singing _To Avalon_ to the beat of his whisk. His feet takes him round the main room as he does, flitting from in front of the laptop to the countertop to the windows, restless with energy. Still, his eyes are on the step by step paragraphs every time he continues onward; he’s resolute on making this _good_ pancakes, and he doesn’t have Mikleo’s experience or even enjoyment of cooking, but he’s not going to get horribly distracted in the middle of flipping the pancakes and end up with charcoal. Not today, at least. He hasn’t set off the fire alarm the entire semester so far—he doesn’t want to break that streak, even if that video of a bird nuzzling and comforting another bird looks really, _really_ interesting.

The clock hands don’t seem to tick, when he’s preoccupied—they swing, smooth and round and soundless, and when he looks up, it’s fifteen before nine.

He switches the video to a playlist instead. With only the frying and the flipping to do, he can’t afford to get distracted. “For the good of pancakes,” he tells the pots of thyme and sage. “I hope you don’t mind listening to Anthropology 101.”

They don’t mind. He and Mikleo bingewatch archaeological documentaries on a weekly basis, often with a bowl of ice cream and chips shared between them. The pot of parsley near the telly probably can pass the first semester of archaeology major, now.

When Sorey is done with flipping the pancakes, he has a plate with a tall stack, towering over the bottle of chocolate syrup on the table. Nimuel the Fish grin at the world from the plastic plates, right on their usual seats, but he’s not alone—Winnie the Honey Bear is a half-filled clear container of happiness and honey in the middle of the table, and their matching Teenage Assassin Turtlez mugs are there, too. The container of the powdered sugar is, sadly, those old looking ones with pink carnations on it. It’s from the landlady, who is apparently very charmed by them both.

Nine twenty three. Marlind is alive, now, and he can hear the rustles and murmurs and hungry groans from the other dorms. Not everyone are awake yet, of course—but the one that matters this morning needs to be checked on, just to see if he can have a breakfast together with him.

Mikleo’s door is a faded white thing that creaks worse than Gramps’ doors, and _those_ things are at least fifty years old. Mikleo doesn’t seem to be present—instead, Lump and Fluffy Hair is the representative in his stead, occupying the bed. Tiptoeing around a collapsed bag with tipped over stack of binder and folders, Sorey sits on the edge of the bed, hand lightly treading through Mr. Fluffy Hair.

It’s really an incredible bed hair. Sorey sees it every week at least once, but he rarely gets the chance to see it in its natural habitat. It’s soft, bouncing under each stroke, and there’s a low hum every time his hand pets his head. The sky blue fleece blanket shifts with each breath, but this time, the movements are faster—whoops.

“S’rey?”

Sorey grins and leans down to peck the top of his head, still obscured by a great amount of hair. “Sorry. Was just going to ask if you want pancakes now. I made some.”

“Mnh,” is the reply he gets. The lump softens as he pets him some more, brushing hair away from his ears. Minutes might’ve passed—Sorey didn’t really count the seconds, but he’s keenly aware of Mikleo being a tired putty, and honestly, the idea of plopping over him and rest some more is very tempting, too. “’ts surprise… one m’ment.”

“I could carry you.”

This time, Mikleo pulls the blanket down just enough to send him a sleepy glare. “No.”

Grinning, Sorey swoops down to kiss his nose. “Take your time. It’s your day off. Maybe we can eat while watching something instead.”

They end up as two halves of the same potato for fifteen or so minutes, Sorey climbing over Mikleo to hold him, face full of hair. The tips of Mikleo’s chest-length hair are pale from the fading bleach job, and they look like gossamer with the muffled sunlight—the muted brown of his natural color are like branches, and it makes him winter. Winter is a very good time to cuddle. Sorey buries his face on Mikleo’s back, cheek pressed against the back of his neck, and they stay like that until Mikleo finally gets out of bed. It’s like watching a great tree fall: for decades, the grand thing sways precariously, a pawn of the tug-of-war between order and chaos. In a split second, at the moment of judgement, he falls off the bed, blanket the only thing saved, kept in place by Sorey’s weight.

At least, when Mikleo is awake enough to be grumpily embarrassed about it, Sorey can say that he pulled off the fall very well. It’s a 10/10.

“Pancakes,” Mikleo says after he brushes his teeth, hair pulled into a quick ponytail that frays everywhere still. “I’m glad I didn’t hear any fire alarm going off.”

“Somehow I didn’t get distracted,” Sorey says, proud, and Mikleo only snorts and pokes him on the side before making his way to food.

They sit down in their well-loved blue chairs, orange juice and milk in their mugs. Mikleo’s pancakes are dotted with chopped strawberries and topped off with powdered sugar, a nice contrast to all the chocolate and bananas Sorey puts on his, and Sorey grins as Mikleo closes his eyes during the bites, making a noise of appreciation. His loose white shirt softens the lines of his slumped, sleepy back, and he looks so very content as he slowly chews, even letting Sorey push a chocolate-covered bite into his mouth, and that’s the best part of it all. They take almost an entire hour to eat, pausing now and then to just chat and watch videos about etymologies of the terms in their favourite novel series, and collapse on the couch afterwards. Sorey brushes Mikleo’s hair with cartoons in the background.

“We should go to the bookstore today,” Mikleo murmurs with eyes closed. “They have a sale on non-fiction. We can cross off some more of your wishlist.”

They might, later. For now, though, dozing off on the couch sounds just fine.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I wanted to make this drabble collection relatively chronological, but who am I to say no to stupid fluff? nobody, that's who.


	5. Chapter 4

Old Elysia is a place of ancient reverence, almost timeless in the stillness of the life, a steadfast beacon of history. Sun is often a bright thing up there, though it’s softened by the numerous overgrown trees, foliage almost like dark clouds that swayed with the winds. They’re gigantic, those trees—when Sorey was five, he was only tall enough to be the size of its width. Now, he’s far taller, but the tips of his outstretched arms can’t touch both ends anyway. Which means he can’t hug it, but he tries every day anyway, on the one nearest to the stairway leading to Old Elysia. It’s like an arboreal grandfather—he and Mikleo spent a lot of time around it as children, and they sleep leaning against it often, full from sandwiches and iced tea and exploration.

The other object of fascination is, however, the ruins of a village, the original Elysia. A crumbling remnant of stone homes, most of the things are too worn down by time to be truly explored. Sometimes, though, he and Mikleo can find faint etchings on the stones—rain-smoothed, most of them are lost, but not all. It’s not exclusive to houses, though, those murals. Even more amazingly, they’re also on the cliff walls, on the long-lost shrine that he and Mikleo thinks must have been there at some point.

“A thunder god,” Mikleo once whispered, finger tracing the lightning shape on the mural, gaze flowing down like a raindrop on a windowpane. Underneath the stormy skies, a bubble of safety protects the houses and villagers while a sagely figure of wrath is lifted above them, glowing with sparks. “A seraph of lightning. This was a shrine to a seraph of lightning.”

That was two years ago. Now, they’re still trying to find where the shrine could possibly be. It still is a mystery, but they’ve been compiling notes and findings and they’ve even looked into trails and locations of trees and stars and everything and Sorey knows that one day, they’ll find it.

It does make Sorey wonder, though.

“Gramps?” Mornings on weekends are times for play, but these days, it’s time for chores, and he’s out airing the mattresses in Gramps’ house, propping them against anything from fences to sticks and chicken coops. Sun is rich today, bathing everything in warm gold—even Gramps is outside, smoke drifting lazily from his pipe. The puffs are sometimes accompanied by a flick of his wrist, barely perceptible but with thought—dried corn and feed rain the dirt ground like a shower of coins, turning the chickens into a rush of noise heading for the easy bounty. Poking the edges of the last mattress so that it would puff up better, Sorey turns his head towards Gramps, eyes transfixed on the mottles floating in the sunlight though his mind isn’t. “Where do you think the seraphim are, these days?”

Gramps takes a long drag and exhales. “Why do you ask?”

“Well, Elysia was a place with like this really strong belief on a thunder guardian deity, right? And I mean, with how many murals there are, it must have been a really strong belief. I just thought that something that strongly believed in must come from something. Something real. But I mean, is Elysia these days really a place with like, a lot of lightning and storm? Do you think they moved out?”

It’s been making Sorey wonder, lately. Elysia is a relatively rainy place, but they’re rarely _too_ stormy; Uncle Michael said that it’s actually quite mild, compared to the stories of thunderstorms from other places. Sorey would say that probably the bigger problem is the occasional landslides—sometimes, they carry with them rubbles of Old Elysia, making it even more dangerous. So, does that disprove the idea that the seraph is still here? Does the seraph need to have a real presence to be, well, real?

“Ah,” Gramps says. “What do you think?”

Sorey purses his lips. “Well, I suppose it could also mean that Elysia is more peaceful these days, too, now that I think about it.”

After all, if the seraph is a guardian deity, then it’s only normal that they don’t do much in times of peace like these. Growing up, everyone always makes it a point to remember to thank the seraphim for their bountiful mountains—he supposes that that’s always been what the image of the seraphim is, for him: a race of being who blesses the land. The idea of a thunder god who protects over the mountain always sounds like something else, even though he calls them a seraph, too. He supposes he just has to change how he thinks about things—which, well, isn’t really easy.

“It certainly is,” Gramps says. Sorey puts his hands on his hips and gazes at the direction of Old Elysia, smiling.

“Well, then I hope they hadn’t moved out, then. Elysia is a nice place; I hope it can be a nice home, too.”

* * *

Uncle Michael is a bit of an odd fellow.

Not in the crazy sense, but he’s really a departure from the others in Elysia—whereas everyone else are born into the rural life, Uncle is someone who _moved_ _in_ , having had enough of the world below at the ripe young age of twenty six. Sorey to this day still wonders why. He did, after all, apparently led a life that allowed him to travel all over Glenwood, which is why he ended up writing the greatest bestest most interesting and most awesome book ever: the Celestial Record, a book that documents various locations’ connection to seraphic faith and the seraphim, ranging from still standing cities to ruins so far from civilization that it’s nigh impossible to really pin it down on a map. Sorey will go to great lengths to be able to have that sort of job. Mikleo would, too.

But Uncle Michael stepped back from that life, and now he’s here, sometimes in Camlann, doing things Sorey is certain is a _lot_ less fun than finding and documenting ruins. From what Sorey knows, he does a lot of things. His teachers know him. So does Sorey’s summer part-time boss. And the librarian. And everyone, basically. Well, everyone old, anyway.

“Morning, Sorey,” Uncle says, tilting his head as he sips on his coffee. “Mikleo’s out to get some milk right now. I reckon he’ll be back in a few minutes, though. Want some biscuits?”

Sorey takes a seat, mooching off one of the oat cookies from the jar. Uncle Michael precariously balances the laptop on his knee, fingers tapping restlessly against the keyboard, and he hums. He looks kind of lost in thought—though then again, this is Uncle Michael, who always has his head elsewhere even when he’s eating dinner. Him accidentally dropping his spoon because he spaced out is not a strange sight anymore.

“Writing?” he asks. Man, these biscuits are good. “Is it fun writing or boring writing?”

Uncle laughs. “A bit of both. I’m writing about seraphic faith cultures, but it’s an official report rather than an article. So it’s boring, anyway.”

“Oh! What for, though?” Sorey has given up trying to pin down what sort of jobs Uncle Michael has, but sometimes it involves writing reports, and so he’s just going to take it at face value. “Do people really need to have a report on those kinds of things? What do they use that for?”

Uncle takes another sip. “Hmm, there are various reasons to have official reports on these things, actually. Usually it’s for some community related things that are a bit complicated to explain. The other use for it is, well, documentation. If nobody documents it, a lot of people would think it doesn’t exist. So these reports are made to make it clear that there are people who still believe in the seraphim, too, and documenting the ways they show their faith allows people who don’t live in those areas to know the many ways seraphic faith lives on.”

Sorey leans in closer, eyes wide. “You know, Uncle, you’ve gone to those places, right? Have you seen the seraphim?”

This time, Uncle laughs. “The seraphim are not far from us. You don’t need to go so far to find one.”

“Wait, really?” Furrowing his eyebrows, Sorey leans back. A hand grabs another cookie as he thinks, slowly chewing with the pace of his thoughts. “Is it the old thunder deity from Old Elysia?”

Uncle taps his fingers on his laptop for a moment, humming. And there he goes again—his eyes are a bit glazed, as glazed as donuts, and wow, Sorey sure is hungry. He’s already eaten breakfast before coming over, and that breakfast can only be called “very hearty”, but he’s already mooching off more biscuits. Oh well. He’s a growing boy. At least he’s growing.

“Actually, you know what?” Sorey blinks at Uncle Michael’s sudden words. “How about you and Mikleo try to figure out what the Elysian seraph might look like? Bonus points if you can pinpoint who or what they are, exactly.”

There’s a sort of liveliness in his face that Sorey’s kind of surprised by—Uncle Michael is always kind of like, muted in terms of emotions; he’s sort of awkward in the ‘I came here out of obligations and I’m only smiling because of political experience’ way most of the time, and whenever he’s actually comfortable with the situation and place, he mostly is just ‘mildly pleasant’. Sorey is _excited_.

“Oh, it’s on!” Sorey whoops, and Uncle laughs. “Wait til I tell Mikleo—I’ll beat him in this.”

“Beat me on what?”

And there he is, sweat running down the side of his face as he raises his eyebrow. Mikleo wipes it away with the back of his hand as he crosses the living room to the kitchen, an entire bucketful of milk sloshing dangerously on his other hand. There are sounds of clacks and clangs and clings as Mikleo rummages for bottles to put them in, but half of his body is visible from here. Well, works well enough for a conversation, as far as Sorey is concerned.

“We’re gonna find out who or what is the seraph of this village,” Sorey says, grinning. “And I’m sorry for this, Mikleo, but I’m winning this one.”

“Says the one who can’t write down comprehensible notes on all our research,” Mikleo shoots back, voice drowned by the sound of milk pouring into a bottle. Sorey sends him a wink—what he can’t see won’t hurt him, but also because he knows that Mikleo just can’t hold back those notes. Because Mikleo is weak. Also, because he secretly likes the fact that they have the same basic knowledge on the case, and that makes it a fair race. Basically, Mikleo is a sentimental fool.

“Work together, boys,” Uncle says, grinning. “You have until before college to figure it out.”

“In that case, we’ll get it figured out in one year, I bet,” Sorey says.

After all, he’s going to work with Mikleo together on this. Very few things can withstand their combined efforts for long; when Mikleo pokes his head from the kitchen, they share the same confident grin.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i forgot to post this here im sorry it was finished way back in sept 12 *face in hands*  
> It's just boring backstory too sO IM SORRY x20 ic nat believ emyself,,,
> 
> i'M BARELY ON TUMBLR THESE DAYS SO hit me up on twitter if you want!! I'm @ghostofcrux and also local michael there so you know im here to fuck up *thumbs up*


	6. New Year's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There’s so much in this one moment, and it makes him think about the days before—they’re equally rich, aren’t they? But he can’t remember them all. But at least by staying in this year he’s still somehow attached to them, tethered by a thread, a common ground—
> 
> “I’m going to get some soda,” Sorey says instead, moving back home for a cup. “Want some?”

There’s something exciting, celebration-worthy, muted, and terrifying about thinking about a year’s end.

Sorey doesn’t really know how to describe it, exactly—every time it approaches he eagerly anticipates it then he thinks about all the things he’ll leave behind and get terrified, but they’re never bad days, those last days. Mostly just very yawn-filled. There are lots of festivities. It’s just that in the lulls of the in-betweens, the darkness between two lights feel deeper than usual.

It’s a stupid fear, honestly. Even _he_ ’s not buying it. New Years are great.

“Sorey?” Mom calls from the kitchen. Sorey looks up from the chickens, thumb restlessly fiddling with the fodder meals he’s just gotten. They’re soft but ultimately rather squishy in his palm, which is kind of eugh when he thinks about it too long. “Did you pick up the cornmeal from Camlann yet?”

“I did,” Sorey answers, throwing the rest of it to the ground before dusting off his hands. They’re probably gonna run out of it in two weeks or so, though, so they’d better get some soon after New Years. Though then again, he did see clovers and stuff, and there’s no real shortage of worms around, if Sorey’s childhood is any indication. They’ll be fine. “Do you want to make the cornflakes now?”

His bike—blue and pretty new, just two years old—is leaning against the wall, and the big bag of cornmeal is tied on the back seat. It’s a tradition, here, to make snacks and just eat as they light a bonfire in the middle of the village, chairs circling it. And well, snacks for an entire village is a lot of snacks, and it’s not rare for them to get ready two weeks prior. With now being a week before the end of the year, they’re cutting it just a bit close, but well. He and Mom work best when chased down with a broom called deadline. Aunt Muse and Uncle Michael have been busy making snowfall cookies these past few days, on the other hand. They’re really the best at it—so soft it seems to melt, with the powdered sugar coating them tasting icy and—

“Sorey! Come on, stop daydreaming about Mikleo. Or cookies. Whichever it is you’re daydreaming about.”

“’m not daydreaming!” Sorey calls back as he hefts the sack over his shoulders, sulking at the ducks passing by. Then, in a murmur, “ _you’re_ daydreaming. Probably. Maybe.”

Contrary to popular belief, Sorey grumbles mentally as he makes his way to the kitchen, he does thinks about stuffs, sometimes. Sure, he acts a bit—well, a lot—spacey and jump topics and stop and stares at the ground way too often too fast, but he’s not just dreaming.

Well, at least Mom doesn’t get too on his case about it. His teachers do, though. His answers aren’t always textbook answers, and while his old teacher appreciated his answers on their language arts class, the ones this year are really prickly about what he says on answers sheets, and—

“Sorey, cornflakes!”

“All right, Mom!”

* * *

Right, so, past few days—mostly goats, cornflakes, cornflakes, their garden, Lawrence with twenty bottles of soda pop. Food was communal whenever these type of festivities happen, partially—he and Mom end up at Mikleo’s, where they fried up tofu after dinner, dipping it in some soy sauce with chopped up garlic and onions in between batches of snacks.  Sorey knew that Uncle Michael had a thing for coffee, but he wasn’t sure that it was normal or a good idea to drink it at 11 pm. He looks kind of like he’s ready to bike his way to Camlann at that very moment, which isn’t really a good idea considering that a considerable amount of streets there tend to be chained up for the night, thanks to some old wariness for the military. They were gone when Sorey was two or three, but apparently despite the pretty short duration, its effects were long lasting.

Anyway, Sorey’s been eating the misshapen leftovers of the cookies. Ever since he was seven, Uncle Michael was banned from succumbing to his wide-eyed begging to make more misshapen cookies so Sorey can eat them without waiting for the New Year’s Eve. Mom can be cruel sometimes.

“Stop mooching off the cookies,” Mikleo chides as he elbows Sorey’s side, barely making contact from how his hands are holding on to big plastic containers filled with the cookies. Sorey’s just escorting him. Him and his cookies. The cornflakes are already at their places, so he’s just filling his time being nice. “I think you ate like half a kilo of the stuff already. Don’t you get bored of it or something?”

“The likelihood of that is about as high as me getting bored of ruins. I dunno, Mikleo.”

Mason is by the wooden pyramid, yelling and waving at Ed as they get the bonfire ready. It’s seven, eight o’clock now, and everyone’s out of their houses—from hunger, probably, because dinner is postponed until the roasts. Not on the bonfire, of course, but it usually starts with it, if only because that’s when Ed hauls the coals from the storage. He can already smell the birds and chickens and corns, in the distance. The smoke tastes like excitement.

Sorey helps Mikleo place the containers on the coffee tables dragged out, nestled between bowls of cornflakes and berries and soda, cubed papayas and hot ginger milk tea. Behind them the fire crackles to life. Mom is bent over as she talks to Medea, who’s starting to roast the chickens, while Aunt Muse is talking to Gramps, a plate of the cookies extended towards him. Eyes darting, his mind catalogues people, noises, lights, probing each sensation with the curiosity of a bird before hopping back, hopping on, and suddenly, it all feels overwhelming and _not enough_.

“Sorey?”

There’s so much in this one moment, and it makes him think about the days before—they’re equally rich, aren’t they? But he can’t remember them all. But at least by staying in this year he’s still somehow attached to them, tethered by a thread, a common ground—

“I’m going to get some soda,” Sorey says instead, moving back home for a cup. “Want some?”

Mikleo raises an eyebrow. “I think I’ll get the tea instead, thanks.”

“Suit yourself.”

Melody and Cynthia and Kyme wave and nod at him as he passes by, and Sorey grins in return. It’s unlikely that it was even visible, though, he muses, smile fading with each step—they don’t have street lamps, and the only lights are from the open doors. There’s tons of noise, cluttered like his house, but it’s the spaces in between the sounds that feel excruciatingly empty. He wants to cram everything into them, things that overflowed from the tight fits, like that concept of osmosis he learned this semester. Even it out, maybe. To divide them into memorable chunks.

He sort of needs to go back to the crowds, somehow. He’s sort of scared.

As he stumbles home his eyes catches Uncle’s silhouette, sitting hunched on the front steps of his home, holding onto a cup by its rim. He’s staring at the festivities, faint lights showing his tiny smile.  Sorey makes a beeline for him.

 Uncle raises his glass. Fizzes—soda. “Hey. Waiting for dinner?”

Huh? Oh—the other half of the roasting team, the ones with the birds, are ten meters away. It’s Natalie and Loanna and Shiron, so they’re pretty quiet; Sorey almost didn’t realize they’re there, with how their hunched forms covered the fire’s glow. “Not really,” Sorey says. “Just kind of. Uh.”

Uncle pats the step beside him. “Sit down.”

From here, they’ve got a sort of good view of the sky down to Camlann—the town itself isn’t visible, but Sorey’s seen enough of this scenery to guess where’s what, and every year they always look there, because it’s where all the fireworks are. They don’t do fireworks, here—scares off the livestock. They have sparklers, though, for after dinner. Sparklers remind Sorey of what he’s going to lose, after the fizzling sparks disappear: an after image, too vague to be a concrete leftover, too long to disappear without a pang. It feels like crushing a can. Kinda like the realization that fireworks are gorgeous and exciting and awe-inspiring, but those five seconds are all they have, and afterwards nothing can ever really be like it again.

“Have you ever been scared of New Years, Uncle?”

“Hmm?” Uncle takes a sip of his drink, unblinking eyes on the sky. “New Years? Why?”

“Mm, nothing. I just…”

Like this world is something he loves, and he loves all of it? What makes it _it_ is all the experiences and memories and losing it feels like losing a crucial part of who he is, because Sorey likes to gather all the tiny moments and sort them, tagging them to be reviewed later. Because all of it—the sounds, the tastes, the feelings, the sights—shape him to who he is now, and Sorey likes to know his roots. Because he wants to remember what it is about everything that makes him fall in love with the universe.

“I dunno,” he mutters. “I want to see the New Year, but I also don’t want to leave this behind.”

“Ah,” Uncle says. “That.”

“Yeah.”

Above, the leaves rustle with bats and winds. Some yelp and yells follow, filled with panic about the fires, but they all glide over his skin and just raise goosebumps.

“Why does it scare you, Sorey?”

“Well,” Sorey starts, fiddling with his sleeves—“Like, I mean, everything I am is sort of, uh, an aggregation of all I was and how I react to it? And. All my thoughts during all these years. The decisions. It’s kind of scary to think that I’ll forget them.”

It’s not something people think he has, all things considered. They think he likes living in the possibilities. And he does! It’s just that, well, the past were also possibilities—it’s just that they were possibilities that he _chose_ , subconsciously or not, and that makes them as valuable, too. He likes to understand himself. He likes to know why he’s doing the things he does right now.

“Oh, you mean _that_ ,” Uncle says. “There’s no real way to keep all that, that’s true. The brain only has a limited capacity for information—most of what we experience is lost. But honestly, I think… It doesn’t only have to be your brain that remembers.”

Sorey blinks. “Huh?”

Uncle turns his head, staring at him. “Most of your experiences are shared, aren’t they? It’s not just you who remembers it. And your thoughts… You can always write it down—share it with the paper. We’re not put in this world solely to rely on our own capabilities; we all have lived through so many things because we have resourcefulness, people to shoulder half the work. There’s so much we can do, but by distributing, sharing what we have to carry, what we do ends up being what’s meaningful to us.” He takes a sip. The distant stare towards the night sky makes Sorey turn, too, to see what he’s looking at, and his eyes find the pale, blinking stars. “It took me a while to realize that, too. But anyhoo, you should probably get back.”

“What about you?”

Uncle raises his cup, smile lopsided. “I’ll join you all later. Food smells good right now.”

* * *

It’s far later at night. The green glow of his watch is kinda hard to see with all the red and yellows but it’s nearing midnight, now, and everyone’s buzzed up on fizzy soda and lots of sugar, laughing as an occasional firework fires off from Camlann. Sorey’s got one leg up on Mikleo’s chair, and Mikleo’s leg is bent and resting up on his knee. They’re kinda sleepy but one container of cornflakes is sitting precariously on Mikleo’s leg, tilted and leaning against _his_ leg, and they’ve stolen a bottle of the lemon soda for themselves, sharing a cup as they munch. The packs of sparklers rest against their plastic chairs, waiting for midnight.

“C’mon boys,” Mom says suddenly, standing up. “It’s a quarter to midnight. If you want to watch the lightworks, uppity up.”

Sorey jostles, then Mikleo jumps, and they almost spilled everything. Mom swipes the cornflakes, though, and Mikleo just _barely_ saves the cup, so Sorey grabs the sprinklers and hops to the balls of his feet, sleepily exhilarated. The muted sounds of celebrations echo down the mountains—he can’t see the lights, but he can feel it bubble up inside. It would be so, so great to be able to bike down to Camlann as the fireworks fly, to feel the harsh cold air against his hair as his ears ring, but that’s too lonely, and Uncle’s right. This is a moment to be shared, because it’s a precious one he wants to remember.

Mikleo sends him a glare. “Calm down, will you? We almost spilled the soda.”

“Fireworks!”

In the end, it’s pretty much everyone who joins them. Even Gramps and Uncle have gotten up, staying in the far back—Ed and Cynthia and Melody have sparklers of their own, too, while Mason holds the match. Mom taps her foot as she counts out the minutes. Five minutes, three—the light is on, and everything bursts into pale gold.

Sorey looks up, grinning. Mikleo is grinning back, and they wave their sparklers.

“Midnight,” Aunt Muse says, voice light with bated breath.

In the distance, above their ephemeral string of lights, flowers rain. Laughter is echoed by the muted bangs, cloaked and masked and balled up, but it feels free here, in this clearing, so it flies free. They’re at the edge of Elysia—beyond them is the road down to Camlann, the endless steps of fields that line it, the mountains. Beyond them is the world.

Mom kisses his cheek as she grabs his hand with a laugh, making a swish with his sparkler before letting go. Everything feels close together, that second—lights, sounds, warmth—and when he looks up, when he looks up and sees Mikleo and Mom and the rest of his family, the silhouettes of his home, and he sees the after images of the lights, they’re all the color of the wheat fields.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> yes I did just upload a New Year's chapter on jan 21st. you know that valentines card of the eevees and theres slowpoke saying happy new year? thats me
> 
> trivia:  
> 1) the copious mentions of cookies is because i am hungry for kue putri salju often eaten here, or Snow White cookies, lit. snow princess cake.  
> 2) new years' have always excited and terrified me for the reasons in the fic. basically, this entire fic is me projecting on sorey. i've cheated you all. im sorry


End file.
